The Peabody Files - A Drabble Collection
by TheWriterOfTruth
Summary: A collection of drabbles about a certain beagle genius. Most of them will be based on canon, but I will be doing some AU-based musings as well.
1. CrimeBossPeabody - The Interview

"Where's the camera?" The portly man asked, as he took a seat in the armchair adjacent to the journalist.

"Over there," She pointed with a pen, "but don't look at it during the interview. It's more dramatic if you don't address the audience."

"Dramatic? What kind of nut do you take me for? This isn't your typical Sunday night sizzler story. I'm on to something here." He spat back. The journalist nodded patronisingly, tapping the pen to her notepad.

She furrowed her brow. "I'm a neutral observer, Mr. Neumann, but I hope you're aware that this is an uphill battle. It's going to take quite a bit of convincing to persuade the public. You're saying that one of the most trusted and revered public figures in this nation's history is in fact a powerful, underground ringleader of the largest criminal network in the world. Saying that out loud sounds every bit as outlandish as it does when reading it on your blog. What do you have to say for all the sceptics out there?"

Mr. Neumann shifted in his seat. "The interview's starting now?" He eyed offstage, looking back to the woman sitting across from him when he spotted the show's producer swatting an arm of disapproval. "Uh, well, I know it sounds crazy, but that's why it makes complete sense. We're all playing into his hand!" He started waving his hands as he spoke, ignoring the fact that it made him look like a rabid theorist. "I've been tailing him for years, and there's just too many coincidences to consider. Even ignoring all the meticulously planned and covered-up thefts and political tampering, we can't overlook the fact that he's a talking dog with a longer list of accomplishments and laureates than anyone in recent history!"

The woman narrowed her gaze. "Are you saying that Mr. Hector Peabody, world renowned scientist, philanthropist, inventor, investor, and father is a fraud?"

Mr. Neumann folded his hands. "More or less."

In his peripheral vision, the man noted that members of the show's crew had begun to murmur amongst themselves as he'd made that claim. He decided to continue. "It's a bitter pill to swallow, but the rich and powerful are often corruptible. And it isn't all too often that those who came to power did so through honest channels."

The interviewer nodded, continuing to write into her notepad. Neumann knew it was for show, everything would be aired on TV anyway. "Why is it that Mr. Peabody is such a public figure, then?" She queried. "He has his own show, makes frequent public appearances, he funds several non-profitable organisations 'for the betterment of mankind', and he's a well known peace advocate. If he had something to hide, wouldn't he be staying away from the limelight?"

Neumann retorted immediately. "That's exactly why it works, Jan! Mr. Peabody is what is known as a 'cult of personality'. It's all a façade! He will do whatever it takes to deceive and win the hearts of millions. The best cover for a criminal is that of a saint." He suppressed his anger at the reminder of the dog's intimidatingly spotless public appearance.

"In a 2016 interview, Mr. Peabody himself claimed that his personal background was 'unimpeachable', when going through the legal process of adopting his child. How do you respond to that?" The woman looked up from her notes. Neumann thought briefly, before replying.

"Who's to say that he hadn't bribed every single person involved? Or that he'd gone deeper, and expunged all existing information regarding his past? He's filthy rich, and wickedly smart. I don't doubt at all that he is capable of covering his tracks." He reasoned.

"But that is merely just speculation, Mr. Neumann. You'll have to back this up with some tangible evidence.

"The evidence is everywhere," Neumann interjected. "The furs discovered on several crime scenes, the calling cards, and the level of expertise that could only be attributed to one person. Evidence is just a suggestion of guilt. I'm after a confession, or irrefutable proof of his guilt. Because I've tried to point everyone to the evidence, and it's turned up blanks."

"Why are you here tonight, Mr. Neumann?" The journalist asked monotonously, inviting hostility. "If you have nothing to base your suspicions on, then you're admitting that we have nothing to investigate. All of the evidence you just listed has since been disproven by the New York chief of police."

Neuman cut her off. "I said I had evidence, not incriminating proof. I have it on good word, that dog is criminal scum. He owns the police in this country. I'm merely trying to tell you all to rise above the label of 'sheeple' and think apprehensively about the matter."

The journalist raised a hand to her ear, holding up her finger to shush Mr. Neumann. "I am just now hearing from my producer, that we actually have Mr. Peabody himself on the phone. He'd like to address your concerns directly."

Mr Neumann straightened his back. "He knows I'm here?"

The journalist nodded. "This show is being broadcast live across the States, sir. He'd like to have a word." She turned to look to the camera, despite her earlier advice. "Yes, hello Mr. Peabody, you're live. What do you have to say in response to Mr. Neumann's claims?"

A smooth, rounded voice crackled through a nearby speaker, projecting the voice of the dog into the room. "Good evening, my dear. And Neumann".

Neumann felt his blood simmer. "Hello, _dog_."

He heard the voice chuckle through the phone. "Still trying to tarnish my reputation with your unfounded drivel, I see. Let's not resort to the petty remarks."

Neumann was at his boiling point. "I'm closing in on you right now, you miserable mutt. I got eyes from the inside, it's only a matter of time before I get enough evidence to lock you away for years. Why, I'd even be willing to guess that they'd reinstate capital punishment for the likes of you."

The room filled with murmurs and restrained gasps of shock at his direct threat. Not shaken by the threat, the rich voice chuckled once more.

"Oh, Mr. Neumann. So brash and irrational. I'm merely a small dog with a big heart! Perhaps you should visit my humble abode sometime soon and we can set aside our differences over dinner!" The dog offered with sincerity dripping from every word.

The man looked around, sweat beading off his forehead in frustration, hearing the mutterings of praise Peabody was receiving from the room's occupants. "Your taunting will get you nowhere. You know what they say, Hector. The bigger they are…"

Peabody cleared his throat. "I love my theatrics just as much as the next dog, but I think we should save it for dinner. I'll be in contact shortly regarding the details. I promise you that I have nothing to hide, _Jay_."

"Whatever, this ain't over, rat." The man murmured, as the call disconnected. Turning back to face the interviewer, he cleared his throat. "Now, where was I-"

The woman cut him off, "Unfortunately, that is all the time we have for tonight. Thank you for tuning in to this live segment of 'America's Biggest Conspiracies'! I'd like to thank my guest Nieman for sitting with me tonight."

"Neumann." He corrected, earning a half-hearted nod from the woman, as the cameras cut and she immediately leapt to her feet, unclipping her lapel microphone. He stood up and followed her briefly. "I know he's got something to hide. It's your job to make me out to be a hack, but I'm going to prove you and your producer wrong."

She stopped at the stage exit door, shoving it open with one hand and turning to him, holding it open. "I'm sure you will. Now get out."


	2. Forks

"Okay, you're going to have to lead me through it again." The redhead boy sighed.

The sigh was met with one of his father's own. "Sherman, I really don't see how you are struggling to memorise this. There's a distinct difference between each spoon, fork, and knife."

Sherman slumped back into the kitchen stool. "Maybe you should just go on your own, clearly I'm going to embarrass you anyway."

The beagle's face morphed into one of concern. "Sherman, I promise that you are not an embarrassment. The invitation stated that children and spouses are welcome, and I would prefer not to attend it alone."

Sherman ran a hand along his hair. "Why does that even matter? You were invited because you're in that committee thing."

Peabody straightened out the ensemble of knives before turning back to Sherman. "It's the Multinational Board of Climate Change Activism. Given my recent contribution to clean, renewable energy sources and applications for such sources, I was invited to enlist, and as a show of solidarity, I am attending their bi-annual dinner."

"But I thought you didn't like committees, or clubs, or anything exclusive like that because you said they're just for show." Sherman narrowed his gaze.

"Not typically, no. I reject dozens of invitations to IQ and wealth-related societies on a monthly basis. The MBCCA, however, is a highly functional society of great scientific minds, Sherman. Minds that are put to good use in saving our planet. I'm sure you'll find it fascinating!" Peabody smiled warmly, clasping his paws behind his back.

Sherman picked up a spoon, staring at his reflection in on its polished surface. "Sure, whatever you say. Now what's this one?" He turned his face back to his father.

"That's a soup spoon." He replied swiftly.

"What about these other ones?" Sherman gestured to the spread of 6 other spoons.

Peabody cleared his throat. "Dinner spoon, dessert spoon, teaspoon, coffee spoon, serving spoon, and a salad spoon."

"The word 'spoon' is starting to sound weird to me, Mr. Peabody." Sherman smirked.

Peabody shook his head unamused. "To think I'd never taught you this before. By thirteen you'd better know your spoons."

"That's a sentence I never expected to hear anyone say ever." Sherman giggled. "What about the forks?"

Another sigh. "Dinner fork, dessert fork, fish fork, cake fork, fruit fork, and a salad fork." Peabody droned monotonously, having already told Sherman their uses twice over before.

"Alright… what were the last three again?" Sherman raised a brow. Peabody closed his eyes, suppressing another sigh.

"Alternatively…" He began, hesitating. "Your utensils are ordered from the outside in, in order of use."

"You mean I didn't even need to know all of this? What a waste of time!" Sherman threw his hands up in the air.

"No, no, no, Sherman," Peabody raised his paws apprehensively, "It's still a good practice to come to understand the use of eating utensils!"

"But they're doing the thinking for us, so we don't have to! Why should I bother?" Sherman groaned. Peabody's eyes trailed to the ceiling for a moment, thinking of an answer.

"Oh no, you're going to turn it into another one of your weird life lessons, aren't you?" Sherman groaned. Peabody didn't respond, instead continuing to think for a few more seconds.

"Perhaps my years of experience as a home chef and dietary health enthusiast have ingrained a bias in me but let me offer this as an example. Would you prefer to think for yourself, or entrust another being to make your decisions for you?" The dog climbed onto the stool beside his son, his eyes not leaving the boy's own.

"Huh? I just like not having to think about what fork to use, what are you talking about?" Sherman asked confusedly.

"People demand freedom of speech as a compensation for the freedom of thought, which they seldom use." Peabody replied. "Not my own words, as much as I wish they were, but rather Søren Kierkegaard's, a philosophical favourite of mine during my formative years. If you do not indulge yourself with the knowledge to comfortably make decisions autonomously and keep your interests in mind, others will make them for you. At the dinner, you will meet but a few individuals that were wise enough to break from that mould, and stand for what they believe in. They choose their own forks, so that nobody else can. Do you understand?" Peabody concluded, furrowing his brows at his son, awaiting an answer.

Sherman's eyes scanned Mr. Peabody's face, processing everything he'd just been told. "…It's just forks, Mr. Peabody."

Peabody's face flushed with humour, breaking into a chuckle. "It's more than just forks, Sherman. You'll understand when you're older. In the meantime," He jabbed Sherman in the arm lightly with the prongs of a salad fork, "get to know your forks."


	3. The Poster

Mr. Peabody is seldom prone to waking up during the night.

There were exceptions to that, such as when he'd have the occasional nightmare, or epiphany that he'd forgotten to do something during his more lucid dreams. However, on this night, the awakening wasn't his own doing.

Feeling his ear muscles tense with a faint sound of a yawn, the dog rolled to his side, eyeing the digital clock he'd placed by his bedside.

_2:00 AM_

Letting out a quiet yawn of his own that sounded more like a whine, he reluctantly slid himself out of bed, blinking a few times to adjust his eyes to the still-dark room. The moon shone high atop the penthouse, bathing its interior with a very faint blue glow. Even so, Peabody had to feel the walls of the corridor to avoid walking into any walls or furniture as he made his way to Sherman's room, silently thanking his furred paws for quieting his footfalls. To his surprise, he eyed a slither of yellow light creeping out from under the door. Sighing to himself quietly, he pushed the ajar door open ever so slightly, gazing into the room.

His brow furrowed as he saw Sherman sitting at his desk, his lamp shining over what looked to be homework. He pushed the door open some more, catching the attention of his son.

"Ah! Mr. Peabody, I- uh! What are you doing up so late?" The 7-year-old boy questioned with a start. The dog's face turned to concern.

"I should ask you the same thing, Sherman. In case you hadn't noticed, it is two in the morning, and you have school tomorrow. What on earth could be so important to deprive yourself of much needed rest?" He replied, mild worry entering his tone.

Sherman grimaced slightly. "Well… I have this project…"

Peabody sighed, rubbing his eyes in resignation. "You've left an assignment incomplete until the night before? Sherman, I understand that you were subject to a variety of distractions over the past few weeks, on account of the… Mrs. Grunion fiasco, but I cannot accept that you were not supplied with oodles of time to complete whatever task it is your teacher assigned you with!"

Sherman fidgeted in his seat. "Well… it's not really being graded. It's this poster thing we were asked to do."

Peabody stopped rubbing his eyes. "An ungraded poster, you say. For what purpose?" The dog's curiosity piqued, he pulled up a nearby chair, sitting beside his son.

"It's constitution day soon, and uh, the teacher wanted us to make these really nice posters for the classroom wall!" Sherman toothily grinned to Peabody, who returned a small smile of his own.

"May I have a look?" He asked, his son nodding enthusiastically. Turning to look at the poster, it was unmistakeably the work of a seven-year-old. Trivial facts and big lettered titling were written in sloppy, inconsistent handwriting; and crude drawings of the Constitution and its authors were haphazardly scribbled in.

"You have made a valiant effort, Sherman, however as this is an ungraded task, I'd prefer it if you'd go back to bed. You need to be bright eyed and well-rested for some real academia." Peabody ruffled Sherman's hair gently with a paw, swivelling his chair around to get up.

Sherman's face fell. "Aw, Mr. Peabody. You didn't even tell me if it's any good. Do you like it?"

The canine genius felt a pang of guilt at his own dismissive behaviour, realising that he'd shown little interest in his son's work. "Sorry, Sherman. Let me offer my evaluation."

Sherman's grin returned ever brighter. "Awesome! And please tell me what you really think, because I want it to be perfect!"

Peabody smirked at his son's enthusiasm. "Unfortunately, perfection is all but impossible. One can only hope to achieve at their capacity. However, I admire your eagerness to receive feedback. Now, let's see…" His eyes scanned over the poster once more, formulating an opinion.

"To say that James Madison wrote the Constitution is quite an oversimplification. He had drafted it in 1787, however, the final product of the Constitution was the culmination of months of review from at least a dozen other respected individuals. I can see a few other facts on here that are untrue to certain degrees." The dog pointed to a few examples.

Sherman nodded slowly. "Oh… sorry, Mr. Peabody. I read a book about it, but I didn't know it was wrong."

Peabody chuckled softly. "Sherman, that is quite alright. You are still in the first grade; I don't expect you to be completely _au fait_ of the Constitution's conception. And if I may suggest something else, I noticed you have a lot of negative space on your poster. You have only used roughly two thirds of the page."

"But I ran out of things to say, Mr. Peabody." Sherman huffed.

"Which is why, Sherman, it is wise to plan ahead. Had you done so, you could have arranged the images and text to effectively distribute them across the spread of the page." The dog waved a paw over the poster, illustrating his point.

Sherman frowned. "I'm not as good at making posters as you are, Mr. Peabody. Maybe I should just give up."

Peabody felt a sudden flare of paternal instincts. "Sherman, we do not give up in this household! If you'd felt so overwhelmed about this task, why didn't you seek my help?"

"Because you were working so hard today, and I didn't want to get in your way." The boy shrugged. Peabody blinked, and lowered a paw onto his hand.

"Sherman, I will always have time for you. I am a busy dog, but I am never too busy to be with my son. Is that clear?"

The red-haired child looked up to meet the beagle's green eyes. "Yes, Mr. Peabody."

Peabody held his gaze for a few more seconds, ensuring that his son had understood. "Good. Now, stay here, I'll be right back."

Leaping off the chair and onto his paws, the small white hound walked briskly out of the room, disappearing for a short while. Sherman clasped his hands together on the desk, waiting for him to return. Eventually, he came padding back into the room, hefting a stack of various supplies in his arms.

"Would you like to start again, Sherman?" Peabody asked.

Sherman's face lit up. "Yes, Mr. Peabody! Wait, but what about the time?"

Peabody shook his head. "If there's anything I've learned from my college days, it's that an occupied mind will never sleep. If we're going to do something, we're going to do it right."

"Oh, is that why you're always working in your office and lab late at night?" Sherman raised an eyebrow. Peabody dropped the supplies onto the desk, waving a dismissive paw.

"I'm an adult, I can sleep whenever I please. Now, I have some new poster paper, a box of alcohol markers, and a pencil cup for sketching outlines. Are you ready to create the best poster in the class?" Peabody let another smile grace his features.

Sherman pumped a fist in the air triumphantly. "Yeah! Let's do it!"

_Two hours later_

Sherman blinked wearily, his head swaying tiredly.

"I must say, Sherman, this is a very fun activity! I'd forgotten the simple pleasure of researching a historical subject and creating a themed poster around it! I feel like a pup again!" Peabody's tail wagged as he meticulously glued a printed photograph of another except of the Constitution to the blue poster. "Just look at it! Beautiful calligraphy, well-researched information with in-text referencing, and flawless page distribution! We make quite the team, Sherman!"

Sherman nodded distractedly. "Yeah, Mr. Peabody… teamwork makes the… _yawn_, the dream work. And you look cute when you're concentrating… Can I do some more colouring now?"

Peabody grinned. "Sherman, you've used enough alcohol marker to intoxicate a Frenchman!"

"What about all the gaps in the page? I thought you said you needed to use it up." Sherman waved a hand to the blank space.

Peabody shook his head, his ears flapping gently. "No, Sherman. Less is more. A poster is designed to appeal to a person's emotional centres of the brain. If we overfill the page with text, they won't want to read it. As I always say to myself when I write my public addresses, keep it concise."

Sherman shrugged, not bothering to try and understand what his father had just said. "Sure, whatever, Mr. Pea…"

Peabody looked up from the poster, suddenly realising that his son was quickly falling asleep. "Oh, Sherman… I'm sorry, I get carried away sometimes. I think this poster is more than good enough. Let's go to bed."

Sherman didn't respond, instead lowering his head to the desk, his breathing turning slow and deep. Peabody glanced over to the clock, noting that it was now four in the morning. Sighing to himself, he quietly got up from the chair, wheeling Sherman away from the desk, and tugging him out of the chair and onto the bed, tucking him in.

"Sleep well, Sherman. You've earned it." Peabody felt a sense of pride well in his chest, slipping his son's glasses off his face and placing them on the bedside table.

As he turned off the light and closed the door, he smiled to himself. "I will always have time for that boy."

Climbing back into bed, the canine fell asleep in no time at all.


	4. CrimeBossPeabody - The Offer

Mr. Neumann straightened out his tie as the elevator whirred into life, accelerating high into the New York skyline. Feeling a stray bead of sweat roll down his forehead, he whipped out a handkerchief to dry his skin.

"What the hell was I thinking? This is insane." The man fretted aloud to himself, rubbing a hand to his face. "I gotta be losing my mind."

He recounted in his mind the events leading up to now. It didn't take much consideration, as the passing of time between receiving Hector Peabody's invitation to dinner and hopping into a cab had only taken course over a few hours.

'_Perhaps you should visit my humble abode sometime soon and we can set aside our differences over dinner!'_

The straight-toothed, presentable canine's placating words echoed in Neumann's mind. Even through the deceptively friendly tone, he could feel the venom dripping from every word, almost as if to challenge Neumann to find a shred of incriminating evidence.

"What better way to know your enemy, than to fraternise with them." He grumbled to himself, crossing his arms to still their shaking. The elevator slowed to a stop, and with a crisp '_ding'_, the doors opened, revealing the bespectacled genius, paws crossed behind his back - awaiting Neumann's arrival.

"Ahh! Mr. Neumann, I'm so glad you've decided to join me for dinner. The food should be ready any minute, but in the meantime, why don't you make yourself comfortable in my office?" The dog didn't wait for a reply, instead turning around and walking at a relaxed pace, his paws not leaving his back. Neumann followed reluctantly, his eyes drifting around the penthouse.

"Swanky. What do you do for a living again?" Neumann questioned aloud, earning a chuckle from Peabody.

"Stocks mainly, but I dabble in philanthropy and inventing when possible." He answered over his shoulder.

Neumann nodded in understanding. "Ah, so that's the story you're going with today? What'll it be tomorrow, art collection? Importing and exporting? Garbage disposal?"

"Oh, Mr. Neumann. You have character. In another life, we could've gotten along just fine. Why, we could've become close friends. After all, you have been following me more closely than anybody else." He flashed a sly smile to the conspirator.

The pair entered an office, with Peabody taking a seat behind a large desk, in an even larger chair. "Close the door." He commanded, waving a paw. Neumann obliged, before taking a seat in the chair on the other side of the desk. He immediately noted how the chair appeared to give the canine a small but definite height advantage over him.

"Let me skip over the theatrics, Mr. Neumann. You're clever, but not clever enough." Peabody folded his paws together, resting them on the desk. Neumann raised an eyebrow.

"If you could sweat, you'd be gushing right now, Mr. P." He crossed his arms.

Peabody supressed another chuckle. "You underestimate my resolve, Mr. Neumann. The truth is that you'll _never_ convict me. I wouldn't go so far as to call you a mere stone in my shoe, and I don't wear shoes."

"I thought we were skipping over the theatrics?" Mr. Neumann leaned back in his chair, coolly shrugging off the intimidation.

The dog narrowed his gaze. "The real reason why you're here, is for me to throw you a bone."

Neumann returned the pointed stare. "What are you saying?"

"Well, Mr. Neumann," He unclasped his paws, laying them flat on the table. "I'd like to offer you a job."

Neumann scoffed. "Why would I want to work for a wannabe gangster like you? Forget it, I swore an oath to never turn to the likes of you for some chump change."

Peabody tilted his head slightly, his ear dangling. "Chump change, Mr. Neumann? I happen to own half the nation's wealth. I have more resources at my disposal than the United States military."

Neumann clenched his fists. "And you can keep every last stinking penny to your grubby little mitts."

"Mr. Neumann, please. All I ask is that you close the case, and I slide some monetary compensation your way from time to time. How do eight figures per annum sound?" The dog widened his eyes expectantly as he gave the offer.

"You're giving me a ten-million-dollar salary no-show job just to shut me up?" Neumann scoffed.

The dog smiled warmly. "As I'd said before, you pose no threat to me. But you're a good sport, and I'm in a generous mood. If I were you, I'd take the offer." He stroked his chin slowly, "And if my sources are correct, you could really use the money. With that in mind, you should really invest in more sophisticated security for that apartment of yours, my good man."

Neumann's back straightened in an instant. "You son of a-!"

Peabody raised a furry paw in defiance. "Ah, ah, ah! My son is in the next room, if you'd please filter yourself and use more accurate vernacular. I am a gentleman, after all."

Neumann felt himself soar past his boiling point, standing up out of the chair and pointing an accusative finger at the dog he now towered over. "You wouldn't have brought me here if I wasn't a threat to you and your little tycoon! Your days are numbered, puppy."

Peabody remained calm, unperturbed by the man's burst of rage. "It's a shame, really. You could've proven to be an invaluable asset to my… legitimate business. Take care as you return home tonight, friend. I wouldn't want something to happen to you."

Neumann fought to control his breathing, feeling a vein popping out of his head. "You do whatever you've gotta do. But you leave my family out of this, capiche?"

Peabody's expression changed for the first time, morphing from calm to shock. "Mr. Neumann! I am not a savage. Crime has evolved far beyond the smash-and-grab days. We have standards, and honour. You wouldn't know the first thing about-"

Suddenly, the door creaked open, opening to reveal a small red-haired boy. Neumann looked back to Peabody, taking stock of his sudden change in demeanour. His facial features softened, and his paws returned to the desk.

"Dad, I heard yelling, is everything okay?" The boy asked innocently.

Peabody offered a small smile. "Sherman, everything is fine. I'm with company right now, remember our rule about knocking?"

"But the science fair is tomorrow!" The boy whined.

The canine genius sighed to himself. "Alright, Sherman, I'll be right there."

Neumann and Peabody watched as the boy slowly exited the room, closing the door behind him. Silence filled the room for a few seconds, as the man looked to Peabody, smirking at the dog's gentle tone. His smile was only slightly deterred by a death-glare.

"I don't think you're a bad guy, Hector." Neumann calmly reasoned, "But you got mixed in with the wrong crowd. And sooner or later, it'll catch up to you. And I think you're smart enough to know who that will affect the most. No matter what you say, there are no victimless crimes."

Peabody's expression turned unreadable. "You can see yourself out. Good day."

Neumann nodded curtly. "Shame about dinner. I lost my appetite anyway."


	5. The Near-Death Experience

Peabody is a risk-taker.

He'll admit to that. After all, in his mind, risk-taking is a crucial element to being bold, and to move up in the world, one typically must be bold. In tandem with the novelty of his very existence as a talking dog, he leveraged his boldness to climb the proverbial ladder of society. His accolades, his wealth, and his very reputation were all owed to that.

However, just as he'd feared, his son Sherman would eventually look up to his canine role model and inherit the same boldness that would serve him well in life. As well as pose a detriment to him in tight situations.

Crouching in a muddy trench in the Battle of the Somme of the first World War, Peabody deduced that this was the latter of such occasions.

"Sherman, keep your head down! This is one of the deadliest battles in human history. Over _one million_ people were either wounded or killed during it!" Peabody tugged on Sherman's shoulder, forcing his son to lower himself somewhat.

"Relax, Mr. Peabody! We have been to lots of wars and battles before! I can take care of myself!" Sherman rolled his eyes, calling to his father over the crackling of distant gunshots.

"Yes, but I typically try to time our arrivals better. Around the time of surrender or a ceasefire is preferable."

Peabody kicked himself mentally for being so cavalier with his timing. Thankfully, it appeared that a charge into no-man's-land wouldn't be happening for a long while yet, but that didn't mean the pair were safe from stray bullets or surprise artillery. For the first time in years, he was beginning to question his decision to take his son with him to such dangerous events.

"You're shaking again. Trust me, Mr. Peabody, I'm going to be fine! Here, why don't you tell me a little more about where and when we are?" Sherman flashed a toothy grin to his father, leaning on a wall of sandbags, his clothes already muddied from the damp soil that provided them cover from the German opposing force.

"Well..." Peabody cleared his throat shakily, clasping his paws together to calm them down, allowing his encyclopaedic mind to distract itself from the sensory overload. "The year is nineteen-sixteen, and we are currently entrenched with soldiers of the British Empire and the French Third Republic. Fighting them are the German Empire. The battle will rage on for another 139 days from today, with nearly three million men involved. And as I said earlier, over one million casualties, so please stay alert."

"I will be, I promise. I'm nearly fourteen now, so I'm old enough to know better!" Sherman puffed out his chest proudly. Peabody grimaced slightly.

"Sherman, during the first World War, many underaged soldiers illegally enlisted. Some were twenty, nineteen, seventeen, even sixteen. All children in the eyes of society. They were much too young for war, and so are you." He frowned, enunciating clearly with a tone of disapproval.

"You never trust me with anything!" Sherman pouted, crossing his arms.

Peabody sighed. "Sherman, of course I trust you. I'm just doing my job as a father, and my number one priority is to keep you safe. And if that requires extra doting, then I will dote as much as I feel."

Sherman scoffed. "Alright, whatever you say. We're always super careful, and I trust you. There's nothing to worry ab-"

_P-TINK!_

A bullet pinged against a nearby canteen that had been left at the lip of the trench, sending it flying in-between the dog and boy, a clean shot that left its contents spilling out and further dampening the floor of the muddy haven. The men surrounding the odd pair hastily rose to their feet and readied their rifles, taking position against the wall.

Peabody started panting anxiously. "That's it, I'm taking us back to the WABAC. I should've known better than to risk my son's life for the sake of a history lesson. Consider a lesson of my own, learned."

Sherman quietly complied, following his father through the narrow corridors of the trench, trying to appear stoic as they passed curious soldiers who spared them confused glances. As much as he'd hate to admit it, his pride was damaged in one fell swoop.

Thankfully, Peabody seemed to understand and didn't offer an "I told you so" lecture. In fact, his expression remained just as determined as it had been when they first arrived. Sherman assumed that it was probably because he was just as scared as he was, only he more readily admitted it.

It was bizarre to say the least, seeing his father with a genuine expression of worry and fear. On previous adventures, he'd always seemed to be the strong, excitable type. A dog who could always pull through any situation just fine, and everything would be under control. After all, this is the same dog who had guided Sherman out of Versailles during the French Revolution, battled soldiers in Ancient Troy, and saved him countless times, all with half-lidded eyes and a wisecrack ready at a moment's notice.

And so, seeing Peabody as frazzled as he was in that moment, Sherman knew that things were out of his control. This Peabody was not the Peabody Sherman had come to depend on. And that's what told him that it was time to leave.

The WABAC sensed its owner's return, in an emptied section of the trench network, and swiftly began to come out of its cloaking mode. The bright red coating of the machine was a stark contrast to the brown and grey environment around them. And as they stepped into the vehicle, the doors whirred shut, the heating system warming the pair up, providing a small comfort of home as they continued to quiver.

"It sure was… cold out there, wasn't it, M-Mr. Peabody?" Sherman stuttered, hiding his shot nerves. Peabody simply nodded, not wanting to challenge the lie.

"You're filthy. We're heading straight home to shower." Peabody stated monotonously, sitting in his captain's chair, grimacing at the thought of having to clean it later, as the wet mud streamed down his fur. "If I let this try, my fur will be clumping together for weeks to come."

"Okay, s-sounds good." Sherman agreed, taking a seat of his own as the WABAC began to raise off the ground for take-off.

Later, after they had both cleaned up, Sherman and Peabody went about their afternoon routines. This entailed completing homework, and cooking dinner respectively.

Peabody determined that pizza would be a novel idea to positively cap off an eventful day. It was just as he was garnishing the pie that his son walked into the kitchen. Peabody chuckled dryly.

"Hello, there. It seems you have a nose for pizza, you're just in time for dinner!"

Sherman smiled weakly, leaning on the counter and watching absently as two furry paws set the piping hot dish down, before retrieving a pizza cutter from a nearby drawer and starting to cut the dish into perfect eighths.

"M- uh, Mr. Peabody…" Sherman quietly uttered. His father's ears tensed minutely, picking up the low sound with ease.

"Yes, Sherman? What's wrong?" He asked with a touch of concern, an eyebrow raising.

"I never really said thank you before. For all the times you've saved me." The boy solemnly stated.

Peabody set the pizza cutter down, his eyes trailing up in thought. "Being a father at times is a thankless job, but it certainly is a worthwhile one." He cracked a smile, as he returned to cutting the pizza.

Sherman's neutral expression turned into a frown. "No, Mr. Peabody, I'm being serious! You have always been there to help me when I'm in trouble, and I guess I got so used to it that I never really appreciated it. I'm so grateful that you're here for me, and I'm sorry!"

With the pizza cut as evenly as humanly, or rather dogly possible, Peabody placed the pizza cutter into the sink, carrying the dish to the dinner table. "Sherman, as much as it is appreciated, you never have to thank me for something as salient as a father protecting his son. As I said, it is my job to be your guardian, as I swore an oath in court when I adopted you all those years ago."

"Salient?" Sherman questioned.

"Important, Sherman. And that is what you are to me. I assure you; I know that you are grateful. And even when you are not, that's perfectly fine too. I will continue to put you first, even if that means going unappreciated for a while." The beagle lowered the dish onto the table softly, taking a small comedic bow. "And with that, dinner is served."

They took their seats at the table, Sherman taking the first slice and admiring his father's culinary work. "Today wasn't such a bad day after all. I just wish you would trust me more."

Peabody took a slice of his own. "And you may be right, Sherman. You _are_ a teenager now, perhaps I should be entrusting you with more responsibility. After all, you are the one with the most laundry of the two of us. Perhaps you should be doing it from now on. Or better yet, why don't you try your hand at cooking dinner every now and again? I am a busy pup, after all! It would really help me significantly!"

Sherman groaned. "You _know_ what I meant by that! I want to do all the fun stuff that older kids can do, but none of the boring responsible things like chores and having a _job_. Is that too much to ask?"

Peabody huffed with laughter through a mouthful of pizza. Being a well-mannered dog, he made sure to swallow before replying. "You're still a touch young for employment, perhaps, but you are never too young to help your poor father with the housework! I spoil you rotten!"

They shared a good laugh for a few moments more before quietly returning to their food.

Sherman stopped his chewing when glancing down at the half-eaten pizza gave him an idea.

"Hey, Mr. Peabody. You know what Germany did at the end of the first World War?" he questioned, a sly smile gracing his face.

Peabody looked across the table, eyeing his son suspiciously. "I want to say that they formally surrendered to the Allied Nations on November the eleventh, nineteen-eighteen, but I have an inkling that you have an answer of your own."

"No, no, that's what I was going to say too." Sherman raised his hands in a mock defensive stance. "I guess they decided to give _pizza_ chance!"

Peabody's eyes glazed over for a few seconds, as realisation washed over him, his heart soaring.

"I will cherish this moment forever."


	6. The April Fool

"Sherman, your breakfast is getting cold!" Peabody called from the kitchen.

"I KNOW!" The boy returned much louder, Peabody shaking his head to himself in disapproval.

"Inside voices, Sherman." The beagle chastised as his son jogged into the kitchen. Nodding to himself as the boy sat down to begin eating, he turned back to the sink and began washing up from his own breakfast.

"Sorry I took a while, Mr. Peabody." Sherman apologised, picking up a knife and fork and beginning to cut into his plate of sausages and eggs.

"It's unlike you to be late to breakfast, especially on a school morning. What were you doing in the bathroom?" His father replied, raising a brow and looking over his shoulder to the table. Sherman offered a shrug in response.

"I just had a longer shower I guess." He offered meekly. Peabody wasn't so convinced.

"Remember I also have a schedule to keep. I have big plans for today at Peabody Industries. I'll be having an entire room of shareholders and corporate employees sitting in for an hour-long presentation, where I'll be giving projections for the future of my company, to put it simply." He explained with an upbeat tone, unaware of the disinterested expression that Sherman wore.

"Well, I hope you have a fun day, Mr. Peabody." The redhead said thoughtlessly, Peabody humming in affirmation.

"Well, I don't know if you'd exactly call it 'fun', but I am quite the sucker for a well-given presentation." He tilted his head away from the sink as he continued to wash up to respond. "And I took a few liberties this time, inserted a few puns here and there. All relevant to the topic at hand of course!" He chuckled quietly to himself.

"Uh-huh." Sherman replied unenthusiastically, forking a piece of toast into his mouth. "I'm sure it will be very interesting."

The cream-furred dog scoffed softly, knowing that his son was in the early stages of teenage apathy. "Next time, however, I would appreciate it greatly if you would allow me to practice my speech-giving with you." It was an empty gesture; Peabody had given hundreds of speeches in his lifetime, many of which would surely appear in history books alongside wartime and space-race rallies alike. In earnest, Sherman had simply been less eager to spend time with his dog father, and so he had taken any opportunity and excuse to find something new to do.

"Yeah, sure, Mr. Peabody." Sherman muttered, letting his knife and fork clatter onto the plate as he swallowed the last mouthful of breakfast.

"And that goes for you as well, Sherman. You haven't been asking for much help with your homework as of late. I am always willing to lend an ear for any questions or difficulties you may be having." Peabody kindly added.

"Thanks." Sherman stated simply as he slid out of his chair. "Hey, why don't you go and shower? I can wash my own dishes."

Peabody's posture straightened in slight surprise. "Oh! This is a rare treat, why, thank you! I think I will take you up on that offer." His snout stretched into a smile, drying his hands off and disappearing out of the room hastily.

Sherman dunked his plate perhaps too carelessly into the sink of water, a small splash of water coating the countertop. He scrubbed slowly, his head tilted slightly away from the sink, as if to listen closely to any sound coming from the other room. He heard the bathroom door shutting, and after a few seconds, he heard the hiss of the shower faintly sound out.

He snickered quietly to himself, trying to suppress a smile with his upper arm as he continued to clean his knife and fork.

It wasn't until he had placed his plate in the drying rack that he would hear a startling shout over the sound of the running water.

"SHERMAN!"

His ears tensed at the angry use of his name. But he somewhat expected it.

Swallowing down a string of laughter that threatened to leave him uncontrollably, he speed-walked to the bathroom, opening the now-unlocked door.

"Yeah?" Sherman questioned aloud into the bathroom, knowing full well the reason for the urgency.

"Are you responsible for this?!" Peabody's shrill voice loudly cried out, the 'inside voices' rule long since forgotten.

Sherman decided to play innocent. "Responsible for what?" he queried, putting on a faux tone of confusion.

Although the penthouse was very well ventilated, the bathroom was still slightly foggy from the build-up of steam from the hot shower. In a few short moments, it quickly cleared, revealing the misdeed.

Hector Peabody, the once-white-furred beagle CEO, entrepreneur, and father of a very mischievous young son, had turned completely blue from head to toe.

"Did- did you put _blue dye_ in my shampoo?!" He yipped, tugging at strands of Byzantine blue fur that proudly glimmered under the ceiling light.

"Hmm…" Sherman hummed aloud, stroking his chin and looking up comedically in thought. "No, I don't think so. Maybe there was something wrong at the factory, and they put something in the bottle. I have to say, it's quite a fashion statement, dad."

"_Sherman. I do not find this funny. I want you to tell me the truth."_ Peabody spoke with a deadpan tone, giving Sherman a chill that he wasn't used to getting from his fun-loving father.

"Alright, it was me! Happy April Fools, dad!" Sherman nervously proclaimed, throwing his hands up. Peabody's expression remained stoic.

"I…" He began, panting faster and faster, "Have… A CONFERENCE TODAY!" He yelled, a growl entering his voice as it reached a volume that Sherman had never heard before.

The teen was taken aback, never knowing before that his father could sound so animalistic in rage. "Mr. Peabody, I did- I didn't know that-"

"Sherman, I told you _this_ morning, no more than fifteen minutes ago, that I have to present my 10-year projections today in front of a room of _highly_ respected colleagues! Now I'm going to have to do it while looking like a- like a crayon! You are hurting not only my pride, but you very well may cost me some extremely valuable clientele! And if you'd only listened to me, this wouldn't have happened!" He continued to growl, his paws now firmly grasping at his stained coat of fur. "Or maybe it would have happened anyway. Your behaviour has been unacceptable lately, so I wouldn't put it past you."

Sherman felt a rock fall in his stomach. "I- I'm sorry, Mr. Peabody!" He blinked hard, trying to push back the tears that threatened to glaze his eyes. "I thought it was a harmless prank, I should've listened!" He choked.

The dark blue ball of fur gazed at himself in the mirror, his paws supporting him as he leaned against the sink. Sherman could tell that he was mad, as noisy huffs left his snout, fogging up the mirror before him.

"No, Sherman…" Peabody sighed, his voice croaked, likely from exerting itself too much in such a short amount of time. "I'm sorry. What you've done is despicable, but I shouldn't have raised my voice at you like that. It's unlike me to lose my temper like this."

A few moments passed as the two remained planted in their positions, Peabody's huffing steadily decreasing in frequency.

"…Uh, I- I, uh…" Sherman stammered, trying to figure out how to word his sentence. "The dye… it's not permanent, but I don't know how long it's supposed to-"

"Four to six weeks, Sherman." Peabody sighed in resignation. "Four to six weeks." He repeated, looking down into the sink to take his eyes off his reflection. Ultimately, it didn't work, as his blue snout was permanently in his peripheral vision.

"Oh…" Sherman winced, twiddling his thumbs. "I-I wouldn't have done it if I knew it would last that long."

"I know, Sherman. I know." The blue beagle ran a paw along his face, trying to shut out the mental image of his unusual appearance distracting, or even worse, humouring his audience.

"If you want to ground me for this, I completely understand." Sherman's head dropped to the tiled floor, as he scratched his neck. Peabody shook his head, his floppy blue ears swinging around, giving him yet another reminder of his situation.

"As much as I want to, it wouldn't undo this. And I think you're apologetic enough, I trust that you won't try something like this again. And I apologise again for the terse tone."

Sherman's eyes widened. "You're not going to ground me? But I totally ruined your day!"

The small beagle sighed for the umpteenth time that morning. "Perhaps. But I've been in worse situations, I'm sure I can come up with an excuse for this. A novelty charity event, maybe."

The teen nodded slowly; his eyes still glued to the floor guiltily. His culpable disposition changed when a question crossed his mind.

"Hey… how did you know that the dye would last for four weeks?" He asked inquisitively.

Another sigh.

"When I was in college, I had a… phase of sorts." He muttered, just loud enough for his son to hear.

Sherman's mouth dropped agape.

"You _dyed_ your fur in college?" He gasped, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Not all of it!" Peabody turned away from the mirror to face his son, raising his azure paws defensively. "Just my hair!" he pointed to his head, at the neatly combed tuft of fur that he liked to think of as 'hair'.

"Oh, wow… I can't picture that at all! You must've looked like a paintbrush!" Sherman scoffed, his smile widening, the severity of the situation melting away quickly.

"There are photographs, but after today, I think you haven't earned the right to see them quite yet." Peabody crossed his arms, tapping a paw to the ground defiantly.

"Aw… whatever you say, Peabluey." Sherman sighed, turning to leave the bathroom, grinning at the audible sounds of indignation from his father.

"Peabluey?" He cried, scurrying out of the bathroom. "Why, I have half a mind to reconsider my decision to not ground you! How disrespectful!"

"Sorry, dad." Sherman apologised sincerely, walking over to the lounge beside the piano, flopping down into his seat.

"If the weather weren't less than optimal, I would tell you to walk to school today. You're lucky I'm gracious enough to still drive you." He pointed an accusative paw to his son, the other resting to his hip.

"Well, we better hurry then, school starts in half an hour!" Sherman playfully warned, reclining in his seat.

"You'll have to wait for me. Thanks to your little stunt, I haven't had an opportunity to pack myself some lunch just yet." He grumbled, pacing into the kitchen once more.

"Hey, I think there were some blueberries left in the fridge, maybe you can have those!" Sherman snorted to himself.

"If dyeing myself blue was all it took to see my son in an exceedingly good mood and cracking half-decent puns, then I am not so sure if this is a bad thing after all." Peabody chuckled from the kitchen.

"Maybe you should tell everyone at the meeting that you're feeling a little 'blue' today!" Sherman howled with more laughter.

"Alright, that's enough, Sherman. I'm still a victim of your mischief. I have to drive you to school and go to work looking like a tie-dye shirt." His voice called out disapprovingly.

"Um, actually, a tie-dye shirt is like, a bunch of colours, Mr. Peabody! You're just one!" Sherman corrected, placing his hands behind his head.

"You know what I meant!" He whined, returning with a wrapped muesli bar between his teeth, a keychain and thermos of coffee occupying his paws. He set the thermos down, removing the bar from his mouth. "I would have thought that my son would at the very least have the courtesy to dye my fur my favourite shade of red!"

Sherman's eyebrows furrowed. "You have a favourite shade of red?" He questioned. Peabody returned a confused gaze of his own.

"Vermilion!" Peabody exclaimed, gesturing to his bowtie, which now blended in with its fluffy blue surroundings.

Sherman continued to gaze listlessly to his father, shrugging.

"The WABAC? My moped? My private helicopter? The sculpture I commissioned just outside Peabody Industries? You weren't aware of my favourite shade of red, Sherman?" He flailed his paws about.

"Huh. No, I guess not. Sorry, Mr. Peabody." Sherman shrugged, smacking his lips. "On the bright side, maybe if I dyed your fur red, people might think you look angry."

Peabody sighed, closing his eyes and turning his head to the ceiling. "You are just as much a child as you've ever been, Sherman. But I wouldn't change it for the world."

"Heh, thanks, Mr. Peabody." Sherman sighed contently. "I'm surprised you didn't plan to pull an April Fools prank on me this year."

"Oh, I most certainly did plan to, Sherman. But my good conscience got the best of me in the end." Peabody shook his head, once again sending his blue ears into a spin.

"Oh, really!?" Sherman sat up in his seat, "What were you going to do?"

"Oh, no, no." Peabody chuckled. "After what you've done? I'm saving it for next year, after all. You're going to love it." He grinned menacingly, rubbing his paws together.

Sherman gulped nervously.


	7. Basketball

"Come on, Mr. Peabody! I just want to play for a bit." Sherman groaned, leaning back, propping himself up with his hands as he sat cross-legged on the floorboards.

"Sorry, Sherman. You know the agreement, ten minutes of study for ten minutes of basketball." The headband-wearing beagle closed his eyes, shaking his head in defiance. "Just a few more minutes and then we can play. You know, I'm ever so close to convincing your principal to advancing you by two grades. You're at a great advantage over your colleagues!"

Sherman shrugged. "I like making you proud, but I was kinda hoping we could just spend time together this weekend."

Peabody scoffed quietly, tapping his telescopic whiteboard pointer onto his paw. "We _are_ spending time together. I cleared my afternoon for this."

"Yeah, but I don't mean just studying. I just want to relax and play basketball with you." Sherman innocently hummed, sitting up straight and resting his hands in his lap. Peabody sighed softly, retracting the pointer, and setting it aside.

"Very well. We can play on one condition." The dog folded his paws together expectantly.

Sherman's eyes widened. "Ooh! What?"

"If you can tell me what Avagadro's Law is right now, we'll stop the study right now."

Sherman twiddled his thumbs in thought, looking at the floor. "Uh… you can only eat avocados when they're in season?"

Peabody sighed, reaching for his pointer, only to be interrupted by Sherman again.

"WAIT! I'm just kidding!" The boy panicked, waving his hand. "Equal volumes of gases at the same pressure and temperature will always contain the same number of molecules."

The canid scientist nodded slowly in silent impress. "Very good, Sherman. That was a textbook explanation. Alright, we'll stop here for the afternoon."

"YES!" Sherman fist-pumped, leaping to his feet and dashing for the court behind him, Peabody following in tail. "I think I'm getting good enough to make the team!" he called, as he scrunched up a scrap of paper he'd been taking notes of the physics lesson on, making a show of basketball-throwing it into a nearby trashcan.

Peabody frowned. "Sherman, I hope you intend to consult those notes later for revision." Sherman responded with another shrug and a sly smile.

"As for making the school basketball team, I'll be the judge of that." Peabody teased, stretching himself out as he carried the ball in his paws.

"What do you know about basketball?" Sherman teased back to his father.

The dog spun the ball on the tip of his left paw, turning to his son as he walked backwards onto the court, squinting thoughtfully. "Well, now, that question takes me back. All the way back to my college days.

Sherman's eyes widened in awe. "You were on a basketball team in college? How does that even work?" he scoffed, stopping to tie his shoelace.

"My studies came first at all times, of course." The beagle elaborated, shrugging. "But it was a very rewarding experience."

Sherman shook his head, waving a finger. "No, no, I mean how did you get onto a college basketball team? I mean, you are a… you know. Dog."

"Just the same as anyone else, Sherman. Tryouts." Peabody replied. "I had a very supportive coach, whom I had admired for his good-natured love of the sport. He'd even told me on a number of occasions that I would be a formidable opponent in the professional circuit."

"Wow." Sherman crossed his arms, eyebrows raised in disbelief. "So, did you end up playing for any big teams?"

Peabody huffed through his nose humouredly "Playing basketball for a number of years isn't much of a livelihood for a dog such as myself, no, instead I settled for competing on the US Olympic team in 2004, before laying the hobby to rest."

The boy could hardly believe his ears. His father truly was full of surprises at every turn. "But did you win?" He eagerly pressed. The canine nodded smugly, earning a smirk from Sherman in return.

"Of course." Peabody added.

"But how did you even _get_ into the Olympics? Isn't there a rule against dogs…?" Sherman started to question, his voice falling quiet at a raised paw. Sherman waited a few seconds for Peabody to rebut, but instead the dog continued to step onto the court without a word.

"How come you're so good at basketball, then?" Sherman playfully tested Peabody's ego. The bespectacled canine took the bait, turning back to Sherman.

"A multitude of reasons, Sherman. For one, any sport requiring the use of a projectile can be deconstructed and seen through a lens of applied physics. I can visualise the ball and its trajectory, and thus-"

Sherman rolled his eyes, sighing quietly as he anticipated his father to trail back into his physics-based nomenclature.

Instead, he turned and tossed the ball high into the air at half-court, watching as it gracefully soared into the hoop.

"…Become a force to be reckoned with on the court." He chuckled, suppressing a grin to himself, sensing his son's amazement from behind his back. As Sherman remained speechless, he turned back to him to continue.

"As well as my canine senses being well attuned to any spherical object designed for throwing. But naturally, I tend to omit such a detail. For obvious reasons." Peabody cupped his paws together, eyes tracing the admiration on his son's face.

"Gosh. I bet your dog senses were going crazy when you played for college. I bet you were chasing the ball the whole time!" Sherman broke into a laugh, Peabody's face turning to a slight frown.

"That's rather audacious of you to assume that my being a dog would hamper my proficiency in basketball… Although, you are right," Peabody conceded, "As a pup, it proved to be a much more difficult affair. Thankfully, by the time I'd graduated college, I'd been able to minimise any canine instinct left over from my ancestral background." Peabody walked over to pick up the ball as it rolled back towards them. "Fruitlessly scrambling on a well-polished wooden floor on all fours to chase after a basketball gone astray was a point of embarrassment during the better half of freshman year."

"Sorry for bringing it up…" Sherman scratched his arm pensively, feeling a small pang of guilt over reminding Peabody of his less-proud moments. His father instead waved a paw, smiling warmly.

"I've long since regained my pride, Sherman. Besides, it serves as a great anecdote, both on the court, and at the dining table of many a business gathering." Peabody nodded reassuringly. "Up for a game?" He offered, raising the ball over his shoulder to pass it to Sherman. The boy nodded eagerly, catching it as it flew towards him.

"At least you're on my team now." Sherman smiled in return, leaving Peabody taken aback somewhat by the surprisingly comforting analogy. 

Of all his many accomplishments, Peabody knew which one mattered most.


	8. Learning to Drive

Turning 18 was a life event that Sherman anticipated with a great deal of excitement.

But not because he could now legally vote, open his own bank account, start a brokerage account on the stock market, or buy a lottery ticket, no.

That was the age that Peabody adamantly determined would be appropriate for Sherman to pilot the WABAC on his own.

Such a decision had not been made lightly, of course; the floppy eared genius insisted on supervising his son's adventures for a while longer still, until the teen could prove himself trustworthy with all of time itself falling at his feet.

"Don't forget to monitor our speed and drag, Sherman." Peabody remarked, paws folded in his lap to hide their tensing at every high speed passing of a wormhole.

Sherman hummed calmly. "Yep, I got it, Mr. Peabody, we'll be in 1802 in no time."

"1804, Sherman." The dog corrected, "Although judging by our current speed, you've just been informed of a clearance sale at a sixth-century shopping mall."

Sherman scoffed, swatting an arm to his right, missing. "You drive so slow, even on the moped, dad. I've seen mobility scooters overtake you, and those things aren't made to drive on the road."

"Be that as it may, Sherman," Peabody rubbed a paw to his forehead, "You _are_ operating a highly sophisticated vehicle that is worth more in engineering costs and functionality than a sidecar scooter. I'd prefer it if you'd refrain from taking my life's work for a joyride- turn right up here, Sherman."

"Yep." Sherman chipped.

"Right, Sherman."

"Yes."

"Right… RIGHT!"

"WHERE?"

"Sherman, didn't you see the opening in the continuum?"

"No, I was too busy changing lanes I guess."

"Don't sass me, Sherman. You missed 1804 entirely, now you'll have to take the next exit in the thirteenth century and let me tell you firsthand that they do not take kindly to talking dogs and flying machines."

Sherman offered a weak grin to his father, who tapped a foot-paw impatiently as the teen focused on finding the next convenient exit from the timestream. Fortunately, doing so was a swift task, as he had done little to reduce the speed of the red comet. Blue swirls of chronological energy wisped away as a countryside presented itself before them, the mid-afternoon sun casting the interior of the WABAC in an orange hue.

"It's fortunate that I had a meeting scheduled with the Baron of Vitré for later this week, I suppose I can drop by now that we're here." Peabody wondered aloud.

Sherman sighed. "Do you have to do that _now_? I thought you were going to let me choose the adventure today."

"Sometimes, adventure chooses you, Sherman." Peabody closed his eyes, pointing up in an as-a-matter-of-fact fashion, to Sherman's chagrin. "Especially at high velocity."

"Fine, but I get to choose the next location." The young adult folded his arms, following the dog out of the WABAC.

The two were greeted by a vast field of farmers.

"Wow, looks like we landed in party central." Sherman smirked, gazing around at the serene landscape. Peabody sighed.

"It was a simpler time, Sherman. Ninety percent of the population were land workers. The remainder of which were labourers such as blacksmiths and tradespeople."

"Okay but when I said I wanted to go _surfing_*, this wasn't what I had in mind." Sherman tread carefully, watching for animal droppings as he trudged through the farmland.

Peabody let out a small chuckle. "I'm glad to see your sense of humour hasn't shied away from the occasional pun, Sherman. We shouldn't be here too long."

Sherman huffed, following his father. "Where even are we? Europe?"

The canine stopped briefly and cracked a smile, turning to his son. "Now that does not require much deduction, Sherman. Could you be more specific?"

"Uhm… SssspaaiiinItallyyyFraaaance?" The teen drawled, gauging his father's reaction as he spoke.

"Yes, Sherman, we're in France."

In a short two hours, the pair were back inside the WABAC, preparing for another entry into the space-time continuum.

"Can I pick the time now?" Sherman snipped playfully.

"Can I trust you not to destroy my time machine?" Peabody retorted, with an equally playful tone.

They both slid into their seats at the cockpit, Peabody producing a stack of cards from a small messenger bag.

"Come on, that was my first attempt, let me try again." Sherman pleaded. Peabody shook his head.

"Pick a card." The dog spread the deck in his paws, offering them to Sherman. The teen obliged and picked one, turning it over to see the number written on it in black marker.

"1776." Sherman read aloud unenthusiastically, looking up to Peabody, sharing a glance with the beagle.

"Well… it's a very important year in the history of the United States." Peabody tapped his claws together, nodding thoughtfully.

"Yeah, but we've been there like a million times, what're the odds that we'll run into ourselves? Or worse, I land the WABAC on top of my four-year-old self?"

Peabody shook his head again. "I pre-empted that something like that could happen, so when I first built the WABAC, I made the computer log every single trip made, preventing the driver from landing in the same place and time more than once. It'll also warn you of any instances of yourself present in the time you're visiting."

"Okay, but could I run into myself when I'm like, forty years old and visiting some random time?" Sherman asked, suddenly very interested.

"Sherman, as you should know by experience, paradoxes are not to be trifled with. They're complex, messy, and very difficult to undo. As for your question, it's very likely that it wouldn't happen, as your future self would be avoiding you at all costs, just as you should be with your past self." Peabody waved his paws as he spoke, a habit from years of symposium-going.

Sherman nodded along, taking more care to absorb his father's words than he had at any point prior. "Interesting. But I still think we should go somewhere else, I've been there so many times, I want to check out a time we haven't been to before."

Peabody thought briefly before nodding in relent. "Alright, Sherman. But please pick somewhere innocuous for now, I don't feel like running this afternoon." He sighed, pulling out a book of sudoku puzzles, turning to a dog-eared page.

"You're not slowing down are you, dad?" Sherman asked, half-joking and half-concerned. Peabody scoffed, waving a paw of dismissal.

"Sherman, I'm still in my prime, I just had a two-hour exercise routine this morning, I'm ready for a nap once we're home."

It wasn't a lie, Peabody had been pushing twenty-four human years, well beyond the life expectancy of his pedigree, and yet not a single grey fur had come through yet.

"You know, if you want to take a nap right now, I could just fly-"

"Nice try, Sherman, but an instructor never sleeps on the job. We're not going back to the prehistoric age until you're a little older." Peabody crossed his arms.

"Fine, we'll go to some time in the nineteenth century. Safe bet." Sherman shrugged, inputting the target time and location.

Peabody nodded in satisfaction, resting back in his chair. "Thank you. If you keep this up by your twenty-first birthday, I'll let you go on solo flights."

Peabody's ears were met with groans from his son, coaxing a sly grin from the dog as he looked down to his book, scribbling scientific notation in the corners, the puzzle long forgotten.

*Serfing (A pun of 'serf', a land-worker who typically made a pittance under a lord in medieval times)


	9. Learning to Cook

Sherman was, by no stretch of the imagination, a chef. He never claimed to be one, he never cared to learn the different spices and herbs and all matter of seasonings that went into his food, and he never bothered to even learn how to cook.

And why should he, when his father happened to be one of the finest home chefs in the northern hemisphere?

"Come on, Sherman." Peabody padded into the den, crossing his paws as he looked down into the conversation pit. "If you never learn, you'll be in a lot of trouble when you're old enough to start taking care of yourself."

Sherman groaned, rolling to his side to avoid making eye contact with the beagle. "Can't you just keep cooking for me every night?"

Peabody chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head disapprovingly. "Unfortunately, no. I can't always be around to cook your meals. I may one day be too busy, away on business, unwell, or any other manner of unavailability. Not to mention, you may one day move out, and you'll be forced to cook your own meals."

"Well…" Sherman hummed, scratching his arm thoughtfully.

Peabody took another step toward the pit. "And may I add, the alternative would be TV dinners and fast food for every meal."

Hearing those taboo household words, Sherman sprung to his feet.

"Alright, fine! I'll cook dinner." The redhead conceded, stepping up and out of the pit, no longer meeting the dog's eye level.

"My word, you're getting tall." Peabody remarked to himself. Sherman was not by any means a tall child, but at twelve years old, he was beginning to tower over his small father.

"Why do you always wear that weird hat when you cook, Mr. Peabody?" Sherman examined the tall accessory atop Peabody's head that nearly doubled his height, still barely reaching the boy's waist.

"It's my toque, Sherman. I'm quite fond of it." Peabody's eyes squinted contentedly, adjusting it as it fell slightly askew.

"Alright, why do you always wear that 'toque' when you cook?" Sherman asked again.

"Well, I…" Peabody grinned with a tinge of smugness, adjusting his bowtie as he did so. "…competed in the Bocuse d'Or on a number of occasions, and for each event attended with this trusty adornment, I took home an accolade."

"Cool…" Sherman nodded, bouncing on his heels for a few seconds. "So uh, I'll let you sit down and relax while I get dinner ready, I guess." He motioned a hand toward the conversation pit, turning for the kitchen.

Peabody's eyes widened as Sherman began to walk away. He scurried to keep up with the boy's strides. "Ah, actually, Sherman. I think it'd be best if I supervise this culinary endeavour, for the sake of safety."

Sherman stopped walking, thinking for a moment.

"…I don't have to wear the hat, do I, Mr. Peabody?"

"Sherman, wearing a toque is symbolic! I have one waiting for you in the kitchen."

Sherman scoffed. "Really? That's so lame!"

Peabody stretched his paws outward to the empty penthouse. "It's just the two of us, Sherman, wearing a toque in the privacy of your own home is hardly a big request."

Sherman shrugged, continuing his slow stride into the kitchen, Peabody trailing behind him excitedly.

"Are you sure you want to help me? Isn't there a saying that two chefs ruin the soup or something?"

"It's 'too many cooks spoil the broth', and that is an idiom referring to anything but cooking, Sherman. Just trust me, it will be fun! I'll be your sous-chef!"

The boy shot another baffled look at his father, waiting for an elaboration.

"…The sous-chef is second in command in the kitchen. Think of me as an assistant." Peabody clapped his paws together. "Now, tonight I think we should start with something very simple."

"Toast?" Sherman wisecracked, leaning on the kitchen counter.

"Spaghetti, Sherman." The dog corrected. "Now, before we start, please," He retrieved the toque from a nearby drawer, "humour me."

Sherman sighed, kneeling to let his father place it upon his head, as if he had just been coronated as the king of the kitchen. "Fine, but I'm only doing this for you."

Peabody carefully adjusted the hat so that it would rest level on his son's head, nodding to himself in satisfaction once he had straightened it out. "And I am very grateful for it, Sherman."

After some preparation, the dog and boy were standing before the stove, where a pot of water sat.

"Alright, Sherman, now I would normally prepare my own spaghetti noodles, but in the name of simplicity, we are instead going to use pre-packaged vermicelli tonight." The canine reached into an overhead cupboard, retrieving the packaged noodles.

"Heh, vermicelli sounds weird." Sherman muttered humourlessly in response.

"Believe it or not, Sherman, the word vermicelli literally translates to 'little worms' in English." The dog chuckled to himself, pleased at his own knowledgeability. "How crude."

"Uh-huh. Why aren't we using, you know, spaghetti?"

"I tend to prefer its thinner consistency over spaghetti noodles." Peabody picked up the package, tearing it open and handing it to Sherman. "Now, all we need to do is measure out an appropriate amount of- "

Sherman promptly upturned the packet, dumping its entire contents into the pot. "Like this?"

"…Sherman, that's enough spaghetti to last us a week." Peabody sighed softly, putting a paw on his hip and the other over his face. "As I was _about_ to say, packaged spaghetti can be deceptively abundant."

After correcting the measurement, Peabody began to salt the water in the pot.

"Now, Sherman, here's a simple scientific question for you; Why am I salting the water?"

"Uh… because salt is scientifically tasty?" The boy shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"You are… technically incorrect, I am actually salting the water to raise its boiling point. Any non-volatile solution can do this, in fact, as it reduces the vapor pressure of the wa- are you listening to me at all?" Peabody whipped his head back around from the pot, squinting at Sherman.

"Yeah! You said that salt raises the boiling point of water, by reducing the vapor pressure." Sherman replied chipperly.

"Oh… I am sorry, Sherman. Sometimes I forget how attentive you are." Peabody felt a small warmth of pride in his son's eagerness to learn run through his chest, as he continued to lead him through the process.

The next hour continued this way. Normally Peabody would be able to cook something as basic as spaghetti bolognaise in a snap with his eyes closed, but he willed himself to take his time when around Sherman, as he would with any other activity. He had to swallow his nerves when Sherman insisted on dicing the vegetables, but not before giving him a brief tutorial on knife safety etiquette.

It was not long before Sherman began to relax as he followed the dog's instructions, cooking the beef and preparing the sauce eagerly, asking questions along the way. He had almost felt disappointed when it was time to dish up the food and sit down to eat. Peabody insisted on dressing the parmesan cheese and other toppings as Sherman set the table.

The two sat down at the dining table, digging into their bowls.

Sherman could not quite describe it, but the food did not taste like any other spaghetti dish that Peabody had made.

The noodles may have been browned slightly at the edges as a result of him forgetting to stir the pot while they boiled.

The vegetables may have been oddly diced and too chunky here and there.

But that did not matter. It was his spaghetti. And that made it the best spaghetti he had ever eaten.

Across the table, Peabody crinkled his muzzle, holding back a proud smile at seeing his son happily devour his first attempt of cooking.

"You know, we could move pizza night to this Thursday after robotics… if you're interested." Peabody offered, forking another mouthful of spaghetti into his snout.

"…Yes please." Sherman quietly replied, realising how much he fun he had had doing something as mundane as cooking dinner with his father.

For all the time they had spent traveling the far reaches of time, going on adventures, there was a simple pleasure from spending a quiet evening together over a pot of spaghetti.

And Peabody could not be prouder.


End file.
